


Surrender & Sacrifice

by Inky_Pens



Category: The Folk of the Air - Holly Black
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-01
Updated: 2019-04-01
Packaged: 2019-12-30 07:00:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18310541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inky_Pens/pseuds/Inky_Pens
Summary: This is a 2-3 part imaging of the showdown with Madoc, told from Cardan's (Chapter 1) & Jude's POV (Chapter 2). Mind the archive warning, please, and if you're particularly sensitive, grab tissues.You can find fluffier (intermixed with some angsty) one-shots over on my collection called These Mortal Moments. You can find more Cardan POV in my longer continuous story, The Missing Queen.





	Surrender & Sacrifice

When I wake to a cold bed, I do not question it. You would think, given the state of things, that my heart would race and the panic would shake the deeply-laid fear from my bones, but my wife has barely slept lately. I have grown accustomed to going to bed without her or waking up without her. Lately, it has been both. I quickly learned to get used to it or risk my head if I pushed her too much on the issue. I desperately miss and crave her warm body underneath mine. I know not how she manages to find the energy nor the time to partake in a the more pleasurable forms of stress relief that we have grown acclimated to in these last two years, but it is the only normalcy we seem to have down here so I bask in its splendor whenever she comes to me.

With a heavy sigh, I scrub my hand down my face, wiping the last of the exhaustion from my tired eyes and make my way toward her study, which is actually my brother Dain’s old office in the Court of Shadows, though it has been Jude-stricken and seen better days. Books are strewn everywhere. Gashes scar the furniture where Jude has thrown her knives out of frustration or target practice. There are empty, grimy cups for tea that I know she never rinses before she pours in a fresh pot. It’s disgusting. 

She keeps no comfortable furniture in here; _it’s too tempting_ , she says. Emotionally, she is shorter-fused and laden with stress. I often watch her reign in her temper when the messengers deliver bad news from afar. Physically, she is running herself into the ground—literally, too, considering our new home in the reconstructed underground tunnels—and I am worried at how much longer she can keep this up if tonight does not go as planned. 

We retreated from the palace when they stormed the castle almost three weeks ago. We were so horrifically unprepared for the siege. So dangerously close to death. I have played the events down to the very seconds leading up to the moment when we realized we were defeated. Jude warned me for months that something was coming; she told me Madoc’s reach is farther than my name, but in my arrogance, I thought if I could raise land from the ground, I could defend our fortress. She told me what her father was capable of, the lengths he would go for the crown on my head. I waved away the caution foolishly; I will forever regret that grave mistake. 

I just never thought he would do this to her. She was molded after him, _by_ him, in so many ways. Make no mistake, I understand familial betrayal better than most, but the Greenbriar line was not tied together with love. But Jude and Madoc… there is love there, and they both know it. They hate that it exists. The night that Madoc and his army stormed the castle, I had not seen her crawl on her hands and knees, soiling the fine silks and organza of her royal garments, in two years. It was when she first found me after my family was slaughtered, and she punched me right in the gut and pulled me down to her. I sneered at her then, but now I realize now that was the moment I fell in love with her. To see her do it again, as our palace was being gutted by my traitorous army, shocked me to my core. It was as if I had forgotten how familiar she was with the dirt. How no matter the crown or the jewels or the kingdom I bestowed on her, she would never shy away from the soil the very essence of the land that she has claim to. ‘Daughter of clay’, I used to insult her. But it was in the dirt that she snuck us into safety and saved our necks twice now.

I walk in to her office without knocking and settle myself on a bench inlaid with the stone wall. It is smothered in thick dust and tattered scrolls and spilt ink pots and moth-eaten books and—is that a half-eaten pheasant?

“You did not enjoy last night’s dinner, I take it?” She looks up from the hand-drawn print of the castle. She is striking in the best and worst ways. For better, there is a fire in her eyes, a curvature of her plump lips as she regards me with mild annoyance. For worse, she looks as she did when Orlagh released her from the Undersea. Too thin, too pale. Deep-set dark circles under her alight eyes. 

_Tell her_ , my brain commands me. I dismiss it quickly before she sees the conflict on my face.

“Good, you’re up. Shall we run through today’s plan?”

I gesture for her to carry on despite having heard this a dozen times, if nothing else to hear the determination sing throughout her voice. It is much easier on the ears than doubt.

“Right. So, Madoc is meeting with the Living Council today at oh-twelve hundred.”

I knew how to tell military time after the fourth time she reviewed her plan, when I made the mistake of asking her for the fourth time what oh-twelve-hundred meant “in English”. She called me a string of names under her breath as she snatched a pen and ink, flipped over a scrap of scroll and wrote out every military time matched with time as I knew it. “ _If you spent more time learning in our Gentry classes instead of being a prick, you would already know this_ ,” she derided as she shoved her note at my chest.

“The Bomb will leave first to Madoc’s Estate, retrieve Oak and Oriana, and take them out of Insmire with the help of Snapdragon, Severin, and Vivienne. The Roach has redirected the Living Council to the library instead of the usual strategy room, offering an excuse for Madoc’s tardiness. With the help of Lord Roiben, the two will appeal to them to seek reason and defend the crown. Or, _crowns_ , rather. They may dislike a mortal queen, but Madoc is far more dangerous to them. He will see no need for such a restraint on his power once he seizes the crown, and he will be rid of them the moment he has established authority.”

“That leaves you and I to intercept Madoc in the strategy room. Roiben’s guards, and the few we have left on our side, will incapacitate everyone belonging Madoc.” I notice how she uses the word "incapacitate" in place of the much more sinister reality of what she is authorizing. 

 The Roach and the Bomb show up, curiosity peaking their brows. The Roach talks as he enters.

“You could use your beauty sleep, Queen.”

I chuckle at his words, which garners me a withering stare from my wife.

“So, why are we deviating from the plot?”

Jude flinches, casting a nervous glance at me. Clearly, she did not mean for Roach to spill the words out quite so frankly. Shame on her for forgetting his predilection for cutting through the rubbish.

For the first time this morning, I am anxious and unnerved. The plan we have is a solid one. The goal is to disrupt the Council meeting, get Oak back into safety in the mortal realm alongside Oriana, where two Fey are better than one, and show Madoc that we can turn Elfhame against him one court after another, while disposing of every knight who turned his back on the crown. I do not relish in the idea of murdering anyone, but Jude would not relent. “ _They will not extend the same courtesy to us, Cardan. Do not lift your blade, fine. I would not ask it of you. But do not stop me from lifting mine to save us._ ” 

“Madoc will not stop at siege. He will not stop until the crown is in his hands or on Oak’s head. This has to end before he has time to recruit the rest of Elfhame on his side.” She takes a deep breath, looking at each of us steadily before making her announcement. “I am going to force his hand sooner than he expects, if he expects it at all. I am going to challenge Madoc to a duel.”

The Bomb is the first to speak up in hysterics. “Pardon? You are going to duel with—Jude, do not be rash! This is suicide!”

“I can hold my own.” I must give it to her—her voice does not quaver even though she is lying through her teeth.

“Madoc trained you, Jude. He has seen more war, more bloodshed than you could ever experience in ten of your lifetimes! This is stupid. This is so, so stupid.”

“You think I don’t know that?!” Jude screams at her friend. The fear begins trickling in droplets of sweat concealed beneath the sheer linen of my tunic. “You think I haven’t seen the glorified redcap with countless victims staining it? You think he didn’t display his pride and joy in the same home I slept in? I understand Madoc in ways you would not believe. This is not the first time I have come to terms with the idea that he may dip his cap in my blood next.” 

The Bomb turns to me and pleads with a single look. I stare back at her, fixing myself into an expression that does not commit itself to reassurance.

“My King, please. Please make her see. You cannot allow this.” 

Before Jude can protest, surely reminding everyone that she does not take orders from me, I smile at her. It catches her off-guard long enough to quiet her. I hope she cannot see the terrible sadness that comes with it.

“It is the only way,” she whispers to me, _for_ me and me alone. The silent conversation between us turns private, filtering out the others who can only watch the exchange, frozen in trepidation. We do not shy away from vulnerability now. They all fear this is the end, and truth be told, so do I.

So do I.

“I wish this were different, Jude, I really do.” I am being false with her, though, because it does not have to be this way. I could tell her right now that I have another plan, one that will save us both and take us out of this hellhole of a kingdom that does not want us. I have mulled it over silently for days, and there could be no better moment than now to give her an out. But like the coward I am, I say nothing more because I know where her heart truly lies, and it is with the betterment of this realm. The Folk of Elfhame do not deserve her.

Tears prick her eyes. If it was my blessing she wanted, this was about as close to it as I could ever give her. I step forward and place my warm hands on her cool cheeks, thumbs gently swiping the tears from under her eyes, so they don’t dare disgrace her cheeks.

“I can do this.” She wants the declaration to sound strong, confident. Audacious in its very utterance aloud. Instead, the inflection is all wrong, and it sounds as though she is asking me.

I am grateful that words have never failed me before, and they do not now. “I know you can. You will. Madoc thinks he cannot lose. That is how you can defeat him.” Faerie cannot lie, but my lie by omission is in there if she listens closely enough. ‘ _You can_ defeat him _’_ , I said to her. Not _you will_. Because truthfully, I do not believe her strength is comparable to the Grand General who has led Elfhame’s army longer than Jude has been alive and then a probably a century on top of that. Her wit is superior, yes. That clever brain of hers that has her moving and thinking a mile a minute could best so many of us. She is quick, and her aim is sure and deadly. She is more than capable of defeating a difficult opposnent. But she painfully and simply is outmatched in brute strength against the Grand General Madoc. It is an agonizing truth that I cannot bear to say aloud.

The Roach says nothing. He nods his head in a resolved kind of way that indicates he does not like this, but he also knows we cannot keep up this cat-and-mouse game with Madoc. I idly wonder if it was his words that spurred Jude to make such a harrowing deviation from the plot.

Snapdragon blinks, mouth agape and fidgeting. He does not know where his place is to speak, so wisely he does not.

The Bomb has tears streaking down her face. Her fury is palpable, but so is her sadness. She is the first to turn sharply on her heel and walk out. Snapdragon follows, leaving the Roach to stare back-and-forth at the two of us. Finally, he approaches Jude first and places his clawed hand on her shoulder. “If I knew then,” he stop to loudly clear his throat, all of us conscientious of the wet sound of unshed tears in his throat, “If I knew then that the moniker we gave you would be such a great debt on your head, I would have called you the Dandelion, in hopes that we could keep you soft and delicate in a world that demanded so much of you.” His eyes twinkle at her in admiration. I find myself overcome with pride towards her. “You are every bit The Queen we could have imagined, and so much more.”

When the Roach leaves the room, it feels as though the walls are closing in and suffocating us. Jude’s eyes are watery when she looks at me. I open my mouth in want to say something, anything that could stop this or comfort her, but I am not quick enough. I know the words that could change this all.

With a small shake of her head, she stops me. “Tell me later,” she whispers.


End file.
